


bojan: le conte du ballon d'or

by distira



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Crack, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-22
Updated: 2011-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-21 21:25:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/230013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distira/pseuds/distira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>an episode, if you will, from a medieval epic involving a damsel in distress, a quest, The Special one, and the ballon d'or.  that is to say, utter crackfic.  warnings for character death/non con apply but this is not darkfic nor is it heavy fare by any means.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bojan: le conte du ballon d'or

He rose as the birds began  
To sing on his praise, O Special One,  
And mounted his horse,  
Then rode without stopping  
And nature itself moved aside for him  
Until he saw a tent pitched  
In a beautiful meadow,  
Nearby the river.  
The tent was well constructed but of poor colors,  
Half red, half blue with a  
Crest near the top  
That glittered, clear and bright  
In the sun's hot rays, reflections  
Which were displeasing to  
Don Mourinho.  
The rest of the tent,  
As beautiful as he could imagine,  
He would admit, was unprotected.  
He hurried toward the tent,  
Exclaiming as he went  
"This rivals in loveliness  
My own residence, the Bernabéu  
(Though not my own San Siro)  
But perhaps before I destroy it  
It will offer some hospitality."

Don Mourinho reached the tent  
Which was open ("foolish," he thought)  
And in the middle he saw a bed,  
Covered with a blinding yellow cloth  
And on it, all alone, a boy  
Was sleeping with no one to keep his company.  
As The Special One entered the tent,  
His horse outside grew restless  
And neighed loudly enough  
That the boy heard and, waking suddenly,  
Was astonished to see Don Mourinho.  
Ever courteous, he greeted the boy: "Boy,  
I greet you, and wish you no harm."

The boy's eyes widened with fear,  
Convinced he was out of his head,  
And sure he'd been a fool to be found  
All alone and asleep, but he'd had  
No choice, since the rest of his countrymen,  
Culés, by name, had sought battle without him.  
"Sir Knight," he said, "Be gone. Leave,  
Before my company returns and  
Finds you here."  
"I will go," Don Mourinho replied,  
"But first, I will kiss you." For The Special One,  
Ever courtly, had much experiences with  
Damsels in distress, alone and afraid,  
And while the boy was no damsel,  
He was as beautiful as one, and so  
Don Mourinho saw no harm.  
"You will not!" The boy said, "Not by God!  
Leave now, before my company return  
And kill you." But The Special One was not deterred  
By the boy's feeble threats and  
Clasped him in his strong arms  
And lay at full length above him,  
And though the boy struggled as hard as he could,  
Trying to get away,  
His best defense was useless,  
Because, as the story goes, he kissed the boy  
Twenty times or more.

But they hadn't long to wait  
Before the steps of a horse could be heard  
And one from the boy's company  
Made his return. He saw Don Mourinho's  
Horse, tethered near the tent,  
And saw the tent open in the afternoon sun.  
He entered the tent to find  
The Special One, lying above the boy  
And the boy's face stained with tears.  
Worried, he adjusted his burden,  
The Ballon d'Or, which was heavy in his arms,  
And asked "Sir Knight, who are you  
And what business do you have with young Bojan?"  
Don Mourino sat up and greeted the newcomer,  
"I am Don Mourino, The Special One.  
I happened upon this tent looking for  
Hospitality, and that I have received."

When he turned to face the strange man,  
Don Mourinho could see only the light  
Reflecting off of the Ballon d'Or,  
The brilliance of it near blinding him.  
"Is that-?" He asked, raising an arm to shield his eyes.  
"The Ballon d'Or, yes," the strange knight replied.  
"My company has long sought it,  
Searching high and low, and now it is finally found."  
"Where, and by whom? This great spectacle has  
Eluded me for many years," The Special One asked.

"Our Messiah happened upon it," the story was told,  
"At a castle on a hill ruled by a fisherman."  
Don Mourinho stood. "You have found it  
And I would not take it from you, not for  
All the glory in the world, for I am a man  
Of great chivalry. But may I hold it,  
This Ballon d'Or to which I have devoted  
My life? It is my greatest dream."  
"Of course," said the strange knight. "You may."  
The Special One rose without another thought  
For the boy on the bed, Bojan, his name we now know,  
And reached out for the golden statue,  
Although he could not look at it fully  
And kept his eyes towards the ground.  
Once it was in his hands, he felt greatly satisfied,  
More than he had when kissing the boy.  
But his satisfaction was short lived, for when  
He moved to return the Ballon d'Or to its  
Safekeeper, he could not let go.  
"I mean to return it to you, you have  
My word!" He shouted, holding out his hands.  
The Ballon d'Or began to shine even more  
Brightly, and looking towards the ground  
Was no longer sufficient to keep its light  
At bay. Unable to shield his eyes,  
Don Mourinho cried out in agony as  
His vision was obliterated  
By the brightly glowing statue,  
Which then grew warm in his hands,  
At first pleasant to the touch, but then  
As hot as molten lava.  
The Special One fell to his knees and cried out  
Again, but to no avail,  
He could not let go. His skin began to blister,  
And the heat moved up his arms  
And to his chest  
And his gut  
And his legs  
Until all that was left of him  
Was a pile of armor and cloth,  
And his horse, tethered outside.

When it was over, the boy Bojan  
Stood, and wiped the tears from his face.  
"If I touch it," he asked, "will that happen?"  
"No," replied the knight, "because you, Bojan,  
Are a man of great chivalry  
And great virtue, and Don Mourinho was not.  
The Ballon d'Or chooses its keeper.  
In protecting you, it has chosen you."  
Bojan took the Ballon d'Or in his arms  
And it was cool to the touch, and smooth,  
Glittering like the sun on the water.  
"I will carry it with me until the end of my days,"  
He promised,  
And he did.


End file.
